Impulse Control

Impulse Control

We met under a neon sign

at the Coyote Moon;

a rundown bar across

the street from the Ramada.

She asked me for a cigarette

and smiled as I fumbled to light it.

She carried her years well

but her eyes looked a little sad

behind the smokey blue glow.

“Are you married” she asked

and I had to think hard about

if it even mattered anymore.

“Some days more than others”

I replied. She nodded and looked away.

Our Camels burned down

and the conversation stalled,

so we moved back inside for a drink.

She drank Smirnoff straight,

and swallowed like it was pride.

I noticed the wetness on her lips

and wondered how it would mix

with my scotch as we walked out
to share my last cigarette.

“I don’t like to sleep alone”

was followed by a well-dressed

exhale of smoke. “Who does?”
I shrugged, then I kissed her

on the cheek before going back

inside to close out my tab.

SMG

Layover

Layover

I met her in the lobby bar of a hotel

down by the airport in LA. It was

the kind of place you end up when

your choices are like a game of

“Would You Rather?”

An exchange of pleasantries evolved

into sad stories about business trips

and missed connections. She told me

she was getting a divorce and out here

looking for a new start. Why not? I thought,

sadness always looks better with a tan

and a good pair of sunglasses.

She told me she dreamed in pastels

which struck me as odd, because

she only spoke in primary colors

like pain and regret.

I asked her if she wanted to come

up to my room and she looked down

as if she had dropped something

under the bar. She mumbled something,
looked up and I could see the resignation
in her smile.

Murmured protestations often proceed

to surrender in dim resolve of night

as the alcohol and feel of another’s flesh
dull the ache.

“What did she say her name was?”

SMG

One Night in Singapore

One Night in Singapore

The humidity of the summer evening

glazed my face with sweat and it glistened,

with the setting sun. Tears formed on my beer,

they traced tiny lines down the cold bottle

and pooled on the bar. It reminded me

of the night; I spent with her, below

the Tropic of Cancer.

I can still remember the embrace

of the warm night air, the smell

of zhuójǐn wàndàilán orchids

and I can still see the girl, the one

that haunts me on the long nights

of winter. She gave me a look across

the crowded bar, as much a dare

as a come hither stare. Those gilt edged

brown eyes that pierced the room

like needle and silk through wounded flesh.

She was beautiful and kissed me

without saying hello; her lips a sweet

and decadent champagne that I drank

until intoxicated. Her skin was a playground,

fragrant and salty on my tongue. We tussled

in the sand for hours until she pinned me down

with a smile. The night was quiet and still

save for the breeze playing with her hair.

I could feel her flesh part and for the first time

I understood her vulnerability. She was both

courtesan and concubine and she gave herself

completely. I took her by the throat and loved her

until she surrendered with a shutter and a sigh.

SMG

Tides

Tides

We traced the shoreline
with deliberate footsteps
in the failing light.

A pointed conversation,
each solemn word lost
in the crash of the waves;

(The ebb of love
is usually measured
and unperceived;

a gradual retreat
with no regard
for the coming moon.)

and the rhythmic water
eroded all evidence
of what was, as we passed.

SMG

Don't Tell Me Your Name

Don’t tell me your name

Don’t tell me your name;
I won’t remember it anyway
because I killed those brain cells
two or three bottles back.

Just call me Sunday morning regret
and scream whatever you want
in the darkness.

You told me that you left
your vanilla suit at the cleaners
but you won’t need it
on this bad boy escape.

All I want from you
can be had without words
and what you need
requires no long thoughtful gaze.

I want to give you stubble
burns on your thighs,
rolling back spasms
and make you question
everything your mother told you.

In return I’ll take
your nail track brands,
lipstick smudges
and your lingering guilt
home with me in the morning.

You can be a slut for a day
and I will wear my Mickey Rourke mask
until we wash off the night
and go back to our assigned seats.

At Last: Babylon

I told you I would write;
but morning after promises
rarely make it to sunset.

On a night before,
we wrestled in the sands
along the Euphrates
in an awkward exchange
of vodka nicotine kisses;
ebb and flow. You lied
and said I was your first
but Darius and Alexander
had left their marks
long before I tasted
your fetid waters.

Harlot that you were,
I loved you, even
as your gardens withered
and the sands began
to devour your beauty.
When I saw the writing
on your bedroom wall
I ran for the Tigris
afraid of the imminent
devastation of you--
of us.

I made for Lagash
without a backward glance.
With the thunder shake,
and screams in my ear,
I found my way to safety,
and the pure waters of home.

I know my missive is late
but I carried it by hand.
A promise kept,
if only to your memory
and the shifting sand.

SMG

I watched the sun come up from the departures lounge at Schiphol

I watched the sun come up
from the departures lounge at Schiphol

Beer tastes different at sunrise;
maybe it's the bitterness
something like regret.

I left you crying in California
and you said you understood
as I walked through the gate.
I suppose the avalanche of clichés
finally buried your resolve.
But we both know
it wasn’t me or you; it was us.
Me in my cuckold horns
and you in your orphan rags,
both of us reading from a script
that was ill conceived and poorly written.
You held me like I was your father
the night he walked out the door
and I fucked you as if my ex
was watching from the next room.

It is 6:20 AM and I still have
some distance to travel.
I imagine you have cried yourself to sleep by now
and I am here, attempting to write a poem
about the absurdity of Humpty
trying to fix a broken tin soldier.

SMG

Beneath the Rose

Beneath the Rose

Meet me

under cover(s)

in clandestine

destinations,

trust betrayal,

lust and fate

to Harpocrates

discretion. 

Beneath

crimson petals,

we can sate

carnal appetites,

well beyond

prying eyes,

our secrets safe

beneath the rose.

Meet me

in our holy place

and confess

your dark wishes.

Let us do

the unspeakable

shielded by

the gift of Eros.

I will hold you

and whisper

“Sub rosa,

my secret love”.

For we are gods

and our deeds,

cannot be judged

by mortals.

SMG

Listen to @m_blanc_ read "Beneath the Veil" (the poem posted in the comment below)

Tryst

Tryst

"I was hoping I would see you again…"
the words danced on my ear,
her breath and breasts warm against me,
"so I didn't wear panties".

Outwardly unaffected,
I leaned in to catch the fragrance
of her hair as it floated past my nose.
My lips pressed against her ear,
I made it known, I was pleased as well.

Her hand fell to my knee

and slid deliberately north.
“So it would seem”, she said
with a firm and knowing grasp.

The bar was crowded when I entered,

but as she slid her lithe frame
between the bar and my stool,
everything peripheral faded from focus.

“You ran away last time before I finished with you”

My explanations quickly rebuffed, she kissed me.
and my Bond like countenance began to crack.
“Now that wasn’t so hard was it?”
she giggled,  and came back for seconds.
She pulled me closer
positioning my hands on her waist.

I know there was loud music playing

but all I could hear was the sound of her voice as she said
“do you know how wet you’re making me?”
With a deft fluid motion, she slid my hand down
and back up under the hem of her skirt,
removing any thought
that she was prone to exaggeration.

I caught my breath, regained my composure,

looked past her coolly, and made it known
I was ready to close out my tab.

SMG

Scenes from a Hotel Room

Scenes from a Hotel Room

Summer rain spatters

the window, the sizzle interrupted

only by the distant flash and report

of the storm. New York is sad today;

heavy and dank. The lights

of Broadway are jealous

of the lightening’s brilliance

their marquee blaze seems weak

and desperate in comparison.

Today is the third of my visit

and I know that the city

no longer loves me. This return

feels like an awkward encounter

with an ex-lover, proper and cordial

with and undertone of regret.

I’m sorry it turned out like it did

but what did you expect? When

a beggar falls for a whore

one of them is bound to get hurt.

SMG

Killing Uriah

Temptation bathes under
the desert night sky
in a far off Jerusalem.

She is naked breast,
innocent eye, and I;
I am David’s lust
from the roof tops
of Manhattan.

Smeared lipstick desire,
black lace regret
as sweat and screams
eclipse the sunrise.

Come this day, this ache,
this disregard of consequence
and the distant wail of Uriah.

Shadows will descend,
and a penitent man will weep
in sackcloth and ashes
but not tonight: Tonight
I am her King.

Scars in the Afterglow

Scars in the Afterglow

Her skin still glistened, wet
with the remnants of ecstasy.
I, with the gentlest touch,
began to trace the scars
on her back with my fingers.
Slowly she drifted off
as I kissed her shoulder.
I savored the saltiness on my lips
and her scent filled my senses.
The motion of time gave way to stillness
as I continued to trace the scars.
She woke, and with a sad smile sighed,
“so that is how it’s supposed to be”.
She dressed quickly,
seductive red satin falling
delicately over the cicatrix maze
that was forever etched in my mind.

SMG